


Of Hag Stones and Three Leaf Clovers

by Flibbertigibbet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Study in Pink, Alternate Universe - Magic, Changelings, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Magical Realism, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5891041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flibbertigibbet/pseuds/Flibbertigibbet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bullet that sends John's life astray does more than just damage his shoulder. Armed with the knowlege that things aren't always as they appear he returns to London where he meets something possibly even stranger, the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Incongruence

It had been a fairly uneventful afternoon when John had spotted it. The sun had beat down on them heavily and the desert sand whipped around their vehicle so that he had to lean forward and squint to make anything out. There, in the distance he could swear had stood a bloody great dog. Larger than any breed he had ever seen, with such a dark coat he nearly dismissed it for a shadow. Its eyes had glowed blue and when it opened its jaw, huge teeth glinted in the sunlight.

Before John could do more than consider the possibility of heat stroke, there was the deafening sound of an explosion and the world span. The car in front had hit an IED and that party had been ambushed, coming under heavy fire from somewhere within the maze of broken down buildings they had been passing though.

Barking out orders, John ran for cover before radioing in for an extraction. A few paces out of cover he saw Davies go down from several shots to his side and John was moving again before he could think. One of his men had already been taken out by the explosion and he’d be damned if he’d loose another. He could trust the rest to protect his back.

Davies wound was messy but John quickly got to work keeping his guts in place where they should be. It was a fairly close call but if the extraction team got there quick enough, John was confident he’d make it.

A shout ahead made John glance up from his task briefly, and pause when the same dog from before stood now only a few yards away. Someone yelled his name but it was too late, a shock of pain shattered its way through his shoulder. The ache was all consuming, reverberating through him until the very core of him throbbed in agony. Logically John knew the pain he was experiencing was too much for a bullet wound, but by the time he hit the ground his mind was solely concentrated on the pain lancing its way through him.

Murray's face appeared before him, the sound of a helicopter in the distance as he sank into a darkness that not even a pair of glowing eyes could penetrate.

 

The days and weeks following were passed in agony. Murray had managed to get John out but a fever had set in fairly rapidly, much to the perplexed medical staffs chagrin as they had ensured the wound had been kept clean and sterile, yet had still somehow become infected.

When John finally emerged from fever induced dreams of strange creatures and monsters back into consciousness awareness, it was to find Bill Murray stationed at his bedside, but now sporting a pair of blue-grey horns which sprouted from his hairline.

John understandably attempted to go right back to sleep again, but was stopped by Murray who insisted he sit up and have some water.

“Listen, this may seem a bit strange but do you know what I am?”

John squinted at the water suspiciously.

“I didn’t drug the water, this is really happening.” Murray shifted a bit in his seat, “Now don’t take this the wrong way or anything but are you a bit out of place in your family? Different coloured hair or the like?”

John’s eyes stayed narrowed, this time directed a Murray.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” He croaked, the fever having made a mess of his throat.  
It was true that his parents and sister did not have the same blond hair like him, but one of his great grand-parents had had the same colour. It wasn’t that odd, and it wasn’t something he usually thought about.

Murray nodded, leaning back and scratching at his stubble thoughtfully.

“You know much about changlings? Or folklore in general?” He asked eventually.

“Not much, why? What the bloody hells going on? If this is some sort of joke, trust me, you’re not going to find it very funny in a minute”. John was steadily reaching his breaking point, the wound in his shoulder having drained the last of his patience.

Murray simply shook his head, ignoring the explicit threat.

“I think, no I’m pretty sure you are one. A changling that is. A fairy child left in place of a human one. Usually they collect the child back again. You must have got a bit…displaced” He winced, “Not that that isn’t common nowadays”.

John forced a laugh.

“A fairy?!” He asked incredulously. “Look mate, I know I let slip that I’m a bit gay but that doesn’t mean I’m an actually real-life bloody fairy. For one thing I’m a bit big don’t you think? I’m also missing some crucial appendages”

“Fairies are all sorts of sizes and none of them of wings of any sort”. He snorted, “Where that came from I don’t know”.

Murray glanced back at John who was staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. Or horns. Murray sighed and regarded John with a serious tone.  
“You may not believe me about what you are, but you do at least believe me about everything else? The existence of things that aren’t strictly normal or human? You saw the black dog out in the desert and well…” He gestured towards his head and skin, which John only just noticed was slightly grey in tone.

“Yeah, what was that?” John decided it was best to swallow his scepticism for now.

“A black dog is a spirit, an omen. Usually it’s only seen at night, very unusual for it to come out in the daylight like it did”. His gaze took on an edge, “It means death. Honestly when it appeared and you saw it I though it meant you were done for. But, well, with Davies passing away I thought maybe you’d be in the clear”

John clenched his hand a few times, ignoring the shooting pains. This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous, and using the soldier’s death as some kind of explanation was low.

“I realise it may take you while to come round to the idea. God only knows what I’d think if I was brought up human and all of this was shoved at me. I’ll bring you some books, our sort mind, and you can read up on it yourself in your own time?”

John tightened his jaw and stared fixedly at the wall.

Murray eventually sighed and left, horns now conspicuously absent.

 

True to his word, a day or so later Murray returned with a pile of books and promptly left when John made it clear he still wasn’t up for a conversation.

Despite having told himself that he wouldn’t read any of them, the boredom of bedrest eventually set in and with nothing else to do he picked up one of the books. In the beginning he scoffed at everything he read. Dragons and elves and dwarfs? This wasn’t a Tolkien novel.

When he searched for and subsequently read the chapters on changlings his attitude soon changed. So many aspects of his life and childhood now slotted into place. The sections on fairies completely upended his world view, and although still a bit dubious, John was taken in. It was probably also partially due to all the pain medication they were pumping him with.

He’d tried searching for something that would explain what Murray was, but this soon turned out hopeless with the sheer amount of beings with horns and oddly coloured skin. So the next time Murray visited, John asked, and being a lot more open minded they discussed a few things.

Murray was apparently a troll with bogle ancestry, which honestly explained a lot. The horns and general unsociability before this for one thing, and well, Murray wasn’t the best looking of blokes. He joked that his grandmother was apparently an ogre, and that’s where he got the coloured skin from, but said he didn’t put much faith in that as it came from rumours from his dad’s side of the family and they were notorious for feuding with his mum’s.

They talked about a few of the things John had read about, and while he was still dismissive of some things, it was progress.

Eventually they got round to hashing out what occurred when John got shot. Although he was reluctant to relive the experience, he needed to understand what had happened to him.  
Murray had shrugged.

“Not entirely sure. It’s likely one of them was using bullets endued with something.”

“What, like cold iron?” John laughed.

“Maybe” Murray considered seriously, not understanding it as a joke. “Whatever it was it obviously shook loose some of the magic that had been concealing you. Not all of it mind, it was a pretty powerful spell. You still barely register as fae at all, and that’s saying something, elves and fairies are usually easiest to spot, even for humans without second sight.”

 

The weeks passed in a haze of folklore, physiotherapy and medication. It soon became clear however, that the tremor that had developed in John’s left hand was permanent and he could no longer function as a surgeon. Murray had insisted he keep the books, saying that they’d do him more good than they would gathering dust as they’d been before. It gave John a small thrill to secret the books away in his belonging, pages containing things which for all intents and purposes should have been impossible. Or improbable.

It wasn’t until John had made the journey back to England, standing in his, hopefully temporary, bland bedsit, still in his army fatigues with rucksack over his shoulder that the reality of what had happened caught up with him. The career and livelihood he had mapped out for himself was over. His life until that point was based on lies and now cut off from his army friends and Murray, his only connection to this odd secret society, he was devastatingly alone. There was Harry, but Harry was still drunk despite John paying for her to go through rehab and he had zero desire to contact her again after the disaster that was their reunion.

The gloom of his sombre bedsit seemed to seep into him then, settling deep inside his bones and weighing him down heavily. The world had dulled and everything seemed more pointless than it had before. The black dog had foretold death, not only the death of the other soldiers, but the death of his old life.

His hand began to shake and his leg twinged in sympathy, becoming the start if a limp which would plague him for several weeks to come. It made Ella, his therapist, pressure him all the more to open up about what he was feeling, to the point where she insisted he start a blog about his life. He’d agreed if only because that’s what he was supposed to do.

“How’s the blog going?” She’d asked in the next session

“Yeah, good.” John cleared his throat, deciding to try again to sound more convincing, “Very good.”

Ella, raised her eyebrows, seeing right through him.

“You haven’t written a word, have you?”  
It wasn’t entirely his fault. While writing about his life in a blog seemed like a good idea in theory in practise is was something else entirely. Trying to explore his feelings with a bunch of strangers online about why he felt like his life was a lie, an invention, a mere shadow of living, was understandably difficult without sounding schizophrenic. Which he wasn’t. Most likely.  
Other than this John was left with a constant feeling of apathy which wouldn’t leave. Sure the discovery was fantastical and brilliant when it happened, but now back from Afghanistan…John was still John and his life was left feeling grey and empty with the purpose he’d carved out for himself absent.

Ella sighed, “John, you’re a soldier, and it’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”  
John looked at her despairingly. “Nothing ever happens to me.”

The truth. He’d sit alone in his bedsit and only when the walls became suffocating and the books stacked under his bed weighed heavier than usual on his mind, would he leave. Sometimes he went for shopping, most of the time he liked to escape for a brisk walk around the city, despite the pain in his leg.

Normally John would have felt self-conscious of his newly acquired cane, but he was too busy noticing everyone, more to the point, what other people weren’t noticing. They glanced over horns, hooves and protruding teeth, seeming to miss other creatures entirely. There was no denying their existence for John now. The first time a hulking Lobber fiend had stomped his way past John was baffled how he passed so many people unnoticed.

Eventually the knowledge of all the creatures outside became just as daunting and disconcerting as his bedsit and John would return to begin this routine again.

 

Almost 2 months since John’s return, his outlook was still as bleak as it was the first day back. In an effort to liven his day somewhat, he took an unusual route through a park he didn’t usually pass by.

Keeping up an internal dialogue to stop him noticing all the odd coming and goings around him, he nearly missed his name being called from somewhere behind him. When John turned around it was to find a, thankfully regular, rounded man with glasses and the face of his old lab partner, smiling at him expectantly.

John’s brain promptly froze. It had been such a long time since he’d had a proper conversation with someone other than his therapist he wasn’t sure where to start.

“Mike? Mike Stamford? We were at Barts together?” The man, Mike, seemed to take John’s silence in his stride.

“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike.” He shook the offered hand, “Hello, hi.” God he was out of practise.

Mike misunderstood John’s awkwardness, grinning wider he gestured to himself. “Yeah, I know. I got fat.”

“No.” John attempted to sound convincing, but Mike didn’t seem to mind.

“Anyway, I thought you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

Much more than what should have.

John thought about how his whole life had been upended out there in the desert and replied sombrely.

“I got shot.”

 

After a few more awkward exchanges, they decided to grab a couple of coffees and returned to the bench Mike was seated on before.

John, wanting to make up for before, tried to start a conversation.

“Still at Barts then?”

“Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them.” They both laughed. University had been a good time in John’s life.

“What about you? Just staying in town ‘till you get your things sorted?”

Now that was the million dollar question. John thought minute about how to go about answering.

“I can’t really afford London on an army pension.”

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.” Mike had unfortunately stumble his way into striking the nerve John had been attempting to ignore for months now.

“Yeah, I’m not the John Watson…” He trailed off, clenching his fist in an attempt to stave off the likely tremor before it arrived. Did anyone know the real John Watson?

The air between them had become awkward again, and Mike looked away, staring down at his coffee cup.

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked, trying to make amends.

John scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“I don’t know” Mike shrugged, “Get a flat share or something?”

John thought about how he’d blundered through this conversation and looked at Mike incredulously.  
“Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Mike chuckled, shaking his head. That wasn’t the expected reaction.

“What?” John asked, there was a sparkle to Mike’s eyes which he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

John’s curiosity for something, anything, different from his routine reared its head, and although he thought he might regret it, he asked,

“Who was the first?”

 

The question had ultimately lead them to Barts, where Mike insisted he introduce him to the bloke this afternoon. John assumed he must be a colleague of some sort. Mike led them past several labs but couldn’t seem to find who he was looking for. Eventually he steered them towards the morgue and John’s eyebrows rose.

“This guy a friend of yours?”

“No, no. He often comes to Barts to conduct his experiments.”

“So he’s a student?” Not his first choice of flatmate by far.

“No, he just has an avid interest in forensics…as well as other things” Mike replied, turning to knock on the door and missing John’s perplexed expression. Well if that wasn’t ominous.

They entered to find an unassuming young women with a high pony tail putting away several surgical tools.

 “Ah Molly, is Holmes about?” Mike asked from near the doorway.

“Oh, Mike!” She startled slightly, a blush high in her cheeks. “Yes, he was here a few minutes ago actually. He left for his usual room in the library.”

Mike thanked her and they left.

“Seems a bit of a grisly job for someone so young and soft-hearted” John remarked as he limped next to Mike at his usual pace.

“Molly’s made of tougher stuff than most. Doesn’t always seem that way but well, people aren’t always what they appear to be”

Quite, thought John self-depreciatively.

As they neared the room where this ‘Holmes’ supposedly was, John felt a distinct humming under his skin. The air felt charged and restless and something tingled down his spine. It wasn’t unpleasant but something was definitely…there.

By the time they reached the door the humming was a distinct presence, made all the more apparent by the mumbled voice they could hear beyond in the room.

Again, Mike knocked on the door and entered, followed closely by John whose curiosity was fit to bursting,

Inside they found a man, a very good looking man, in an expensively tailored suit who sat cross legged on the floor in the centre of the room, his hands in a prayer-like position under his chin, eyes closed. The desk and chairs had been pushed to one side, and across the floor and some of the walls was scrawled a myriad of symbols and diagrams, the like John had never come across. The mumbling they heard was in fact rapid fire speech in some foreign language.

Although John couldn’t understand what was spoken, he found himself entranced, the words flowing through and around him in counterpoint to the humming which had become an intense buzz under his skin.

Abruptly, the man stopped, and there was silence. Strangely John found he missed the deep tones of the stranger, they were somehow comforting.

The silence grew and so did the awkwardness, neither John nor Mike wanting to interrupt whatever the man was doing. Mike shifted a bit, walking further into the room, when the man in the centre suddenly took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, coming back into himself, before directing his gaze to Mike.

“Can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine” He spoke, his voice a deep tone and soothing cadence even in everyday conversation.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike replied.

“I prefer to text.” Not that unusual.

Mike made a show of checking his pockets. “Sorry it’s in my coat.”

Knowing this to be lie, John still fished around in his pocket before pulling out his own.

“Er, here, use mine.” John had seen stranger things these last few weeks and he didn’t think this man would damage it. He wasn’t particularly sure he’d care if he did.

“Oh. Thank you” The man said turning his gaze towards John. He jumped up from his sitting position and walked towards him. Subtly he looked John up and down before taking the phone, sending a warm, different kind of tingle through him.

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson” Mike said from his position a few feet away.

The man flipped open the mobile, glancing briefly back at John before he began to type.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John frowned and looked towards Mike, who had that same damn sparkle back in his eyes.

“Afghanistan. Sorry how did you know?”

Ignoring him, Holmes finished typing and returned the phone, turning back around and walking towards the desk at the side of the room.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

John glanced back at Mike who now had a full on grin smugly painted across his face. The bastard.

“I’m sorry, what?” John asked again.

The man began putting on his suit jacket. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end and I perform various sorts of spells and magics” He gestured around the room before he turned back to John, “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worse of each other, and people aren’t always very open minded” He said throwing up a fake smile.

“Mike…told you about me?” John asked knowing full well he hadn’t, but feeling at a loss to any other explanation.

“Not a word” Mike chimed in, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall. John was going to kill him.

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” The man strode past him to the door where he picked up a great big coat before putting it on.

“I did. Told Mike this morning that I’m a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

John narrowed is eyes, steadfastly ignoring the growing grin from Mike in his periphery.

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” He questioned, but was ignored like before as the man continued putting on his scarf.

“Got my eye on a nice place in central London. Together we might be able to afford it.” He proceeded to pick up his phone and check it. No signal my arse, thought John.

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, 5 o’clock. Sorry have to dash, I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” He replaced the phone and opened the door, intending to leave. However, Johns patience was about at its end and be barked out a response before he could get out the door.

“Is that it?”

It seemed to have the desired effect as he walked back towards John.

“Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and now we’re going to go look at a flat” Was John’s terse reply.

“Problem?”

John looked at him with disbelief.

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.”

It was Holmes’ turn to narrow his eyes at John.

“I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him. Possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. I know your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic. Quite correctly I’m afraid.” A Smug grin made its way on to his face to match the one of Mikes.

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He walked out the door but leaned back in slightly. “The names Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.” He then had the audacity to wink.

Despite his best efforts, a blush still made its way onto Johns face.

“Afternoon” Sherlock Holmes addressed towards Mike, before leaving.

John turned to Mike.

“Yeah, he’s always like that” was Mike’s response.

John looked at him despairingly.

“Well you can’t tell me he’s not your type” Mike said.

“Sod off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise this isn't a unique idea - Sherlock + mythology - but I wanted to get into writing and also have a passing interest in folklore, so two birds, one stone?  
> As a disclaimer all the folkloric creatures I'm using in this story come from knowledge I've gained from wikipedia, so if you just wiki any of the creature names the information I'm basing the characters on is there. Although I am changing up a few bits and pieces. But its folklore which is obviously messy and differs a lot of times depending on country, region etc. so this shouldn't offend too many folklore buffs. Hopefully. 
> 
> Anyway, the main point of this is to improve my writing so if you could leave a comment about what you thought I would be endlessly greatful!


	2. Perspicacious

By the time John returned to his bedsit that evening his mind was still whirring with thoughts of Sherlock Holmes. He was obviously a bit of an arse, but John thought he could handle that. God knows he put up with worse in the army. It would be a fair trade off anyway, if he got to live with someone that captivating.

Sherlock Holmes was _interesting_ , like so few things seemed to John since his return. He reveled in it. The meeting had brought back a spark of colour to John’s otherwise dull routine and he was reluctant to let it go.

 Remembering what had happened, John sat down on his bed and pulled out his phone. He scrolled though and found the last sent message.

'If dwarf has green ladder,

arrest dwarf

SH’

 John grinned slightly. Of course it had to make no sense to him, it would’ve been odd if it had. The mention of ‘dwarfs’ pulled at John however. Replacing his phone he reached under his bed for the book Murray had gifted him. He rubbed off the fine layer of dust that had gathered on top and cracked one of them open, intent to discover or at least narrow down the possibilities as to what the strange man was.

 As with Murray, this soon turned out to be impossible. There were many beings who could perform magic and many ways in which fae could hide their appearance to seem human, both to others of their kind and other humans.

Eventually John defaulted to Googling the man’s name for any sort of information. No social media accounts, which was unusual. Or perhaps not. It did however bring up two websites owned by him. ‘The Science of Deduction’ which detailed to an absurd degree the specific components of things like Tabaco ash, but also its sister site, ‘The Science of Magic’ which seemed to John’s, admittedly limited, knowledge to be a bit of an oxymoron. This site was slightly more interesting but the excessive detail and all the complicated terms and language was almost immediately off putting. John was at first surprised something like this could exist on the internet where anyone could read it, but it soon became clear why with how intimidating and dull the first page was.

While the search was mostly fruitless and offered no new insight into the man, it at least increased John’s anticipation for their meeting tomorrow where he’d hopefully discover _something_ about him.

The knowledge that tomorrow would again be _unusual_ and _interesting_ helped chase away John’s usual nightmares, if only for one night, and he woke feeling more refreshed and awake since his blasted fever. About an hour before the scheduled meeting John left his bedsit. The flat they were seeing wasn’t that far away, but he’d spent the last hour before that constantly checking his watch and decided he needed a walk before he made contact with Holmes again. He’d definitely need his wits about him if he wanted to survive the encounter.

 

 By the time John finally took the tube and ambled his way to Baker Street he was already leaning heavier on his cane than usual. He limped up to the door of 221b, double checking the address before he reached up to knock. A car door closed behind him and he turned to see Sherlock Holmes emerge from a black taxi cab, paying the driver before he walked up to where John stood. John span to face him fully, extending his hand.

 “Mr. Holmes.” Much better than his encounter with Mike yesterday.

 “Sherlock, please” was his response, accompanied by the same fake smile as their previous meeting. They shook hands and the door behind John opened to reveal an elderly lady.

 “Sherlock!” She exclaimed, opening her arms for a hug.

 The smile on the man’s face became more genuine as he embraced her briefly before stepping back and gesturing to John.

 "Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson”

 “Hello” She said smiling warmly.

 John returned the smile and she waved them both inside.

 “Come in, no use both of you standing out in the cold!”

 John followed Sherlock through the door but before he could blink he was already up the stairs and out of sight. John shuffled a bit and glanced towards Mrs. Hudson.

 “Go on up dear, have a look around, I’ll follow you in a bit”

 John Slowly made his way up the stairs until he came to a landing, the door to their flat already ajar. Walking in revealed a well-lit living room with a large window opposite the doorway and a familiar humming at the back of his mind. The rest of the room was however in complete disarray. Pile and piles of books, papers, actual scrolls of actual parchment, and various types of pots and containers were scattered around the room in various states of mess. The part of one wall was decorated in more of the symbols and diagrams John had seen from before. The room definitely looked equipped to practise magic. There was even a skull and the mail was pinned to the wall by an ornate silver dagger.

 Sherlock stood in the thick of it all, fiddling with a pile of papers and glancing at John occasionally as he looked around the room. Clearly he was waiting for John’s verdict, and equally as clearly was that all the things littered around the room belonged to him and that he had obviously already moved in. John decided to make him wait for his opinion. If he could move in just assuming John would agree to the flat, he could suffer a little. But as far as John could tell the furniture was comfortable and the location good, the stairs were maybe a bit of a drawback but nothing he couldn’t handle.

 “Well?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

 “It’s nice” John eventually commented, “It’s very nice. Will be even nicer if we tidied these things up a bit.” It was best to get these things out of the way early, so Sherlock didn’t start taking advantage.

 “Oh. Um, right.” Sherlock stacked a few more things together and dumped them from the table to the floor as John took a grateful seat in the armchair and massaged his leg.

 “Well this is a prime spot for a flat. Must be expensive.” It was all well and good if he liked the flat, but if he couldn’t afford it he was out. John was not the type of person to live comfortably on another’s charity, even if that someone was exceedingly interesting, and the armchair exceedingly comfortable.

 “Hmm” was Sherlock’s only response, engrossed in one of the scrolls he’d gathered with the intention to ‘tidy up’.

 John cleared his throat and Sherlock glanced up.

 “Oh, Mrs. Hudson’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years ago her husband got sentenced to death. I was able to help out.”

 “Sorry, you stopped her husband from being executed?”

 “Oh no. I ensured it.” He grinned at John, with a slightly manic edge in his opinion, but he couldn’t help but smile in return. As long as he didn’t end up as a second skull on the mantel piece, this could work out.

 Mrs Hudson entered the room then, brandishing a large silver tray with various cakes and biscuits.

 “What do you think then Doctor Watson?” She placed the tray on the table, shoving over a pile of books which Sherlock eyed carefully. “There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two.”

 John willed himself not to blush. “Of course we’d be needing two.” Someone like Sherlock with someone like him? Unlikely. John was far too ordinary.

 “Oh don’t worry dear, we get all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones, and Sherlock tells me one of them is a troll!” She was whispering dramatically by the end. “Can you imagine?!”

 John looked towards Sherlock to see if he’d correct her assumption or at the very least attempt to explain away the bit about the troll, but he was once again absorbed in the scroll. Mrs. Hudson had already moved toward the kitchen anyway, tutting loudly.

 “Oh Sherlock. The mess you’ve made.”

 From his viewpoint John could only see a few pieces of science equipment and a large saucepan filled with something such a vile colour John hoped it wasn’t meant to be edible. But if Mrs. Hudson had felt the need to comment on the kitchen but not the state of the living room, John frankly did not want to see the rest. When the substance on the stove moved slightly he quickly turned around and blurted the first thing that came to mind.

 “I looked you up on the internet last night.” Probably not something he should have admitted after only one meeting with the man.

 Sherlock turned towards him, “Oh? Anything interesting?”

 “I found your websites. The science of deduction and magic.”

 Sherlock took a real interest then, actually looking up from the parchment.

 “What did you think?” He smiled.

 “They were very…informative. But I have a tough time believing it.”

 His smile dropped and his eyes narrowed so that John thought it necessary to expand.

 “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, reanimate a corpse, and change the colour of your skin using a penny.”

 “Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and leg, and your brothers drinking habits from your mobile phone.”

 “How? By magic?”

 Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

 “I hardly need magic for something so simple.”

 “How then?”

 Sherlock simply smiles and turns towards the window.

 “What about these serial suicides then Sherlock? I thought that would be right up your street. Three exactly the same.” Mrs. Hudson said, wielding a newspaper she’d found god knows where as she walked back towards them from the kitchen.

Sherlock continued to stare out the window.

 “Four. There’s been a fourth, and there’s something different this time.”

 “A fourth?”

 As if to answer Mrs. Hudson’s question, several sharp knocks sounded from the door downstairs. Throwing a grin to her, Sherlock waved his hand. There was a loud click followed by a set of footsteps taking the stairs quickly.

 For John’s first witness of actual magic, he found it oddly anticlimactic.

 A man about 40 with greying hair at his temples appeared at the doorway.

 “Where?” Sherlock addressed him.

 “Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.”

 “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to me if there wasn’t something new.”

 “You know how they never leave a note? Well this one did.” He grimaced, “and well, lets just say this is your sort of case.”

 “Excellent”

 “Will you come?”

 “Who’s on forensics?”

 “Anderson.”

 It was Sherlock’s turn to grimace. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

 “Well he won’t be your assistant.”

 “I _need_ an assistant.”

 The man sighed. “Will you come?”

 “Not in a police car. I’ll follow from behind.”

 Looking round the flat briefly, the man turned and stomped back down the stairs. As soon as the door shut Sherlock leapt in the air, a cry of excitement on his lips.

 “Brilliant! Four serial suicides and now a dead fae and a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!”

 He scribbled something down on the scroll still clutched in his hand and threw it down before grabbing his coat.

 “John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

 Just like that he was gone. John was somewhat disappointed. He didn’t know what he expected.

 Mrs. Hudson came over and stood near John. “Look at him dashing about. _My_ husband was just the same.”

 John shook his head, exasperated.

 “But you’re more of the sitting down type. I can tell.”

 Clenching his jaw, John reminded himself that it wouldn’t be right to be mean to the elderly. Or his new landlady. He relaxed slightly when she left, picking up the newspaper she had discarded. It was already turned to the suicides article. The image of the lead police officers on the case accompanied it. The picture showed the same man from before, identifying him as Detective Inspector Lestrade. Why would a D.I. come to someone clearly not involved with the police for advice on a case?

 John was however interrupted from his musings by a voice from the end of the room.

 “You’re a doctor. An army doctor.”

 John stood up and Sherlock re-entered the room.

 “Yes.”

 “Any good?”

 “Very good.”

 “Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?”

 “Of course yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

 “Want to see some more?”

 “Oh _god_ yes.”

 They caught Mrs. Hudson on their way out, she just leaving her flat.

 “Oh! Both of you off out then?”

 “Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when finally something _fun_ is going on.”

 John couldn’t help but silently agree, although fun was perhaps the wrong word.

 “The game Mrs. Hudson, is on!” With a dramatic flair of his coat, Sherlock left, leaving John to hobble after him.

 By the time John made it to him, he’d somehow already summoned a taxi. John hoped this hadn’t involved any magic so that he could learn the trick.

 

 

The drive as spent mostly in silence as Sherlock stared fixedly at his phone, but John’s head was buzzing with so many thoughts it was hard for him to sit still.

 “You’ve got questions.” Sherlock eventually broke the silence, noticing John’s restlessness.

 “Who are you?” Burst out of John automatically. He tried again, “what do you do?”

 “What do you think?”

 It took a while to narrow down John’s many theories into one that was vaguely plausible.

 “…I’d say private detective but…”

 “But?”

 “The police don’t consult private detectives.”

 “I’m a _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

 “What does that mean?”

 “It means that when the police are out of their depth in matters of humans and not, which is always, they consult me.”

 “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

 Sherlock glanced sideways at John.

 “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ You looked surprised.”

  _Finally._ “Yes, how _did_ you know?”

 “I didn’t know. I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But the spell on the room told me as you entered that you were a healer, old friend of Mikes, so trained at Barts. Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limps really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq.”

 John blinked a few times.

 “Then there’s your brother.”

 “What?”

 “Your phone. It’s expensive, but you’re looking for a flat share, you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift then.”

 Sherlock held out his hand and John gave him his phone.

 “Not one scratch but many. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bits easy, you know it already.”

 “The engraving.”

 “’Harry Watson’, clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Unlikely you’ve got extended family, certainly not one you’re close to because you can’t find a place to live, brother it is. Now, Clara. Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, the models only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help. That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

 “How could you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

 “Shot in the dark. Power connection has tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them.”

 There was a pause then. As both men collected their thoughts.

 “…this is of course disregarding what I learnt of you later. Your casual disregard for the words ‘magic’ and ‘fae’, not to mention not questioning Mrs. Hudson when she mentioned a troll suggests that you are yourself a fae, or at least have second sight and are yourself familiar with such things. You may just be exceedingly open-minded, but that’s statistically unlikely and most would still at least comment on it. You have a faint signature of magic which suggests a fae hiding its true appearance or a magic user like myself with the knowledge on how to hide, or both. Insufficient data. I’ve yet to narrow down the possibilities.”

 Sherlock handed John back his phone.

 “There you see you were right.”

 “Right? Right about what?” John considered checking himself for whiplash.

 “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

 Sherlock turned away then, facing the window. His reflection bit its lip and looked nervous.

 “That…was amazing.”

 Sherlock’s head jerked back to John so fast that John thought he may actually need to check him for whiplash.

 “You…do you think so?”

 “Of _course_ it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

 Incredible, remarkable, terrific, wonderful and whatever other synonyms along those lines. All of that without the use of much or any magic? Out of all the people and beings John had met and seen over his life time, Sherlock had to be the most fantastical.

 “That’s not what people normally say.”

 “What do people normally say?”

 “’Piss off’.”

 Sherlock smiled at John. John grinned back and turned towards the window. He was fast becoming fond of the odd creature that was Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

Climbing out the taxi at Lauriston Gardens, they quickly made their way towards the bright yellow police tape and the flashing lights of the various vehicles gathered outside the building where the crime scene presumably was.

 “Did I get anything wrong?”

 If Sherlock was fishing for an answer to what John was, well, Sherlock hadn’t answered any of _his_ questions to start with, and he wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

 “Harry’s short for Harriet.”

 Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

 “Harry’s your sister.”

 John continued walking, ignoring the dramatics.

 “ _Sister!_ ” Sherlock exclaimed furiously.

 John was fast approaching the police tape and suddenly felt distinctly out of his depth.

 “Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?”

 Sherlock sighed and caught up to John easily.

 “There’s always something.”

 “No, seriously, what am I doing here?”

 John’s unease increased tenfold as they were approached by a police officer before he could even cross the tape.

 “Hello freak.” How professional.

 “Ah Sally.” He took a deep breath, “I see you didn’t make it home last night.” Sherlock said, turning to raise the tape for John.

 The police officer had a pretty face, with curly black hair and dark skin, but was obviously not someone John could ever get along with, with remarks like that.

 “I don’t…” She looked towards John, noticing that Sherlock had let him into the scene. “Oi, who’s this?”

 “A colleague of mine, Doctor Watson.” He turned to John, “Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan, old friend.” He said scarcatically. John smothered a grin.

 “A colleague? How do you get a colleague?” She regarded John, “What, did he follow you home?”

 Obviously this was an old feud and John had no desire to get involved.

 “Would it be better if I just waited and-“

 “No.” Sherlock cut him off with an air of finality.

Donovan sighed, raising her radio. “Freaks here. Bringing him in.”

 She led them towards the house, Sherlock for once lagging behind as he looked all around the ground for heaven knows what.

 A petite woman with short brown hair wearing blue overalls emerged from the house just ahead of them.

 “Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.”

 They regarded each other as if they were about to face off.

 Anderson sneered. “It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. None of your hocus pocus. Are we clear on that?”

 Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. “Quite clear. Is your wife away for long?”

 “Oh don’t pretend you worked that out. Someone told you.”

 “Your deodorant told me that.”

 She raised an over plucked eyebrow, “My deodorant?”

 “It’s for men.”

 “So? It’s what I normally wear. I’m not sleeping with a guy if that’s what you think. I’m gay.”

 “Ah but Sergeant Donovan also seems to be wear men’s deodorant today. Not her usual choice and strange isn’t it, that it seems to be the same brand?”

 She shared a shocked looked with Donovan before rounding in on Sherlock.

 “Now look, whatever you’re trying to imply-”

 “I’m not implying _anything_ ” He pushed past her, moving towards the door. “I’m sure Sally came over for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And scrubbed the floor going by the state of her knees.”

 Seeing the wide eyed this garnered him, Sherlock grinned smugly and moved into the house. John followed behind, glancing pointedly at Donovan’s knees as he went past.

 Inside they met with the detective from before, and after he and John had donned their matching blue suits, the three of them ascended two bloody flights of stairs, Lestrade seeming to accept Sherlock’s explain of ‘he’s with me’ for John’s presence. Why everyone else had to wear an overall but not Sherlock was beyond him. Sherlock seemed to be a special case in everything.

 The house had clearly been abandoned for quite some time, the floors were bare, with some even caving in, and the wallpaper was ripped and ragged, with spots of graffiti here and there. At the top of the stairs they entered a room similarly bare apart from a body which lay face down in the centre.

 She had matt black hair, inky tendrils splayed about her head, her clothes, a shirt and a pair of trousers, were equally as dull colours of white and grey. Combined with the pair of heavy set boots she wore, the only bits of skin visible were her hands and face, both of which were a pale green. Johns twisted his mouth, it was a shame this had happened to her.

 “I can give you two minutes.” Announced Lestrade when they had entered the room.

 “May need a bit longer” remarked Sherlock drying, striding around the room before kneeling next to the body.

 “Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her debit cards. We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her. Not sure what she is but the others don’t seem to agree with me on the colour of her skin.”

 John glanced at Lestrade, clearly he wasn’t as normal as he seemed either.

 After a few long seconds, Sherlock having only given the body a cursory look, announced loudly that Lestrade shut up.

 He startled. “I didn’t say anything.”

 "You were thinking. It’s annoying.” Sherlock obviously didn’t have a way with people.

 They watched as he felt along her shoes, trousers and shirt, shirt collar, and hair. He then moved her hair, looking for a while at her face before examining her right hand, followed by her left where he removed her wedding ring, looking at it intently. He then replaced the ring, looking at the area around her hand, and moved back to her right arm, proceeding to roll up her sleeve.

 From John’s point of view it looked as if something had been etched into her skin there. Sherlock gave the body a last glance and stood up, a satisfied grin on his face.

 “Got anything?” asked Lestrade, pulling out a notebook and pen from his pocket.

 “Not much.” Like hell that was true, if the monologue in the car was anything to go by.

 A voice piped up from behind them and they all turned to see Anderson leaning casually on the door frame.

“She could be German. ‘Rache’, its German for revenge. She obviously did this to spite someone-“

 She was soundly cut off by Sherlock slamming the door shut in her face.

 “Yes, thank you for your input.”

 “So she’s German?”

 “Of course she’s not. Fae are remarkably set in their ways. They rarely leave the area they were born, let alone country. No, she’s English. Lives just outside of London. Only came into town to meet her lover, or find a new one. So far so obvious.”

 “Sorry, obvious?” John remarked.

 “What about the message thought?” Lestrade asked.

 Sherlock ignored both questions, turning to John, “Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

 “About the message?” John got the feeling he would forever be lost around Sherlock Holmes.

 “Of the body, you’re a medical man.”

 “Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside!” Lestrade interjected.

 “They won’t work with me.”

 “I’m breaking every rule letting _you_ in here.”

 “Yes, because you need me.”

 Lestrade stared at him, then heaved a large sigh. “Yes I do, god help me.”

 “Doctor Watson” Sherlock said, gesturing to the body.

 John looked towards Lestrade, silently asking for permission. Just because Sherlock got away with everything didn’t mean he should.

 “Oh, do what he says. Help yourself.” Lestrade said, waving him off and leaving the room.

 They both walked to the body, Sherlock kneeling on one side while John struggled down on the other.

 “Well?” Sherlock asks immediately.

 John repeats the same question he’d asked when they’d first arrived. “What am I doing here?” Sherlock clearly didn’t need him.

 “Helping me make a point.”

 “I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”

 “Yeah, well, this is more fun.”

 “Fun? There’s a women lying dead.”

 “Perfectly, sound analysis but I was hoping you’d go deeper.” John was right, Sherlock _was_ a colossal arse.

 He heard Lestrade re-enter the room and decided to just get it over with.

 He lifted her arm, inspecting her skin before looking closely at her face. This was the first clear view of it and what he saw was horrifying. Her face was frozen in a mixture of pain and fear, staring blankly ahead. The veins around her eyes stood up sharply in red, her eyes themselves bloodshot and clouded over, scarlet tears running down her face and pooling on the floor. John swallowed thickly, examining he throat, and looked toward Sherlock.

 “Yeah, no obvious signs for the cause of death. I would suggest heart attack or possibly a seizure. Although that seems unlikely with the state of her face. I would suggest drugs but…”

 “But?” Prompts Sherlock.

 “The only outward sign and damage seems to be her eyes.”

 “Exactly. The last three were found to have exactly the same outward appearance. They all thought a drug was administered through the eyes yet no traces of anything was found in their systems.”

 “Sherlock. I said two minutes. I need anything you’ve got.” Lestrade interrupted from the doorway.

 Sherlock stood in one smooth motion while John stumbled to his own feet.

 “Victim is in her late thirties. Travelled into London today intending to stay for only one night or leave late tonight, obvious by her lack of suitcase.” Sherlock glanced around pointedly. “She’d also not have been able to survive for much longer than that. Married for at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

 “Oh, for god’s sake, if you’re making this up-“

 Sherlock interrupted, pointing to her left hand.

 “Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her Jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of the marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside. That means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work, look at her nails. Too clean and too long to work with her hands. So what, or rather who, does she remove the ring for? Clearly not _one_ lover, she’d never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

 “That’s brilliant” escaped John before he could think.

 Sherlock looked at him.

 “Sorry.” John said, feeling the comment maybe unwelcomed at the moment.

 “Why couldn’t she survive a couple of days in London?”

 “It’s obvious isn’t it?”

 “It’s not to me.” John replied.

 “Dear god, what must it be like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.” Sherlock said before launching into the next explanation.

 “Her hair is damp. Not just damp but soaked through. No rain anywhere in London and both her shoes and trousers are dry, and it’s been too long for her hair not to have dried had she been human. She has a distinct smell distinct smell of stagnant water. No umbrella on her despite the rain forecasted for later, therefore doesn’t mind the rain. All of this leads to the conclusion that she must be some kind of water creature. The colour of her skin narrows this down considerably, as does her choice of clothing. It covers all of her except her face and hands, likely to hide the various small shells that are attached to her skin in various places, the magic contained within her jewellery only enough to conceal her skin colour from the general population, but not needed for her lover who must also be fae. It’s therefore highly likely that she’s a Shellycoat, who cannot survive for extended periods out of water, again demonstrated by her lack of suitcase. But her coat should prove the rest.”

 “That’s fantastic!”

 Sherlock turned to John again, speaking quietly, “You do realise you do that out loud?”

 John felt he had made a fool of himself. Of course it would seem odd to praise someone he’d only just met so openly.

 “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

 “No, it’s…fine.” John supposed Sherlock wouldn’t be the type to lie for appearances, and felt himself relax.

 “Her coat?” Queried Lestrade in an attempt to get the conversation back on track.

 “Yes, where is it? She must have had some way to contact her lovers. Find out her Rachel is.”

 “She was writing ‘Rachel’?”

 “No, she was writing an angry note in German on her own arm. Question is, how’d she know she was going to die long enough in advance to be able to scratch it, or on the other hand, how long was her death? What caused it? Obviously she wrote it on her arm to hide it from the killer…”

 “How do you know she had a coat?”

 Sherlock scoffed, she’s a Shelly _coat_ , meaning she wears a coat of shells. They bring it with them everywhere. It has a large sentimental value so they never let it out of their sights for long. She must have magicked it to look like a regular coat but it still makes a considerable noise if you move it. Now where is it? What have you done with it?”

 “There wasn’t a coat.”

 Sherlock stopped the frantic pacing he’d started during his speech, frowning at Lestrade.

 “What did you say?”

 “She wasn’t wearing a coat. There was never any coat.”

 Sherlock suddenly rushed past them to the dory, hurrying down the stairs. “Coat! Did anyone find a coat? Was there a coat in this house?” Sherlock called to the police staff on his way down.

 John and Lestrade hurried onto the landing, watching him fly down the stairs.

 “Sherlock, there was no coat!” Lestrade called after him.

 Sherlock stopped and looked up at them.

 “It’s murder all of them. We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those.”

 “Why do you say that?” Lestrade calls back down.

 “Her coat! Come on, where is it? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here and took her coat. The killer must have driven her, forgot the coat in his car.”

 He seemed to consider this for a short while before his face lit up and his eyes widened.

 “Oh!” He exclaimed, clapping his hands together in excitement.

 “Sherlock?” Questioned John, obviously he’d worked something out.

 “What is it? What?” Asked Lestrade, echoing John’s sentiment.

 “Serial killers are always difficult. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

 “We can’t just wait around!”

 “Oh, we’re done waiting! Houston we _have_ a mistake. Find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!” Sherlock continued to run down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

 “Of course, yeah, but what mistake?!”

 Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs, looked back up at where John and Lestrade stood two stories up.

 “MAGIC!” He shouted before running out of view and, most likely, out the house, leaving John behind.

 Damn Sherlock and his long legs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I made Anderson a woman, because clearly everyone must be gay!  
> But seriously, I thought it would be nice to have a more onscreen lesbian 'couple' than just one vaugely alluded to. Although now Sherlock's attitude may now come across as a bit sexist? Idk, should I change it?
> 
> This chapter ended up being a lot longer than the first, which was unexpected. I also finished it alot quicker than planned, so I might not update this quickly again!


	3. Waspish

Very much forgotten by the police staff and self-titled consulting detective, John ambled his way carefully down the stairs, removed his forensic gear and made his way outside. He glanced around to orientate himself, secretly hoping he might catch a glimpse of Sherlock.

“He’s gone.” The same curly haired police officer from before called to him.

That much was obvious. The giant berk. Who drags someone with a bad leg half way across London and just leaves them?

Donovan, noticing his expression nods. “Yeah, he just took off. He does that.”

“Is he coming back?” Maybe he could just wait here.

“Didn’t look like it.”

“Right.” Of course. John glanced around again but he still had no clue where he was. “Right…yes. Sorry, um, do you know where I could get a cab?” There was no way he could survive walking to a tube station from here.

“Um…try the main road.” She lifted the tape up for John to duck under. The kindest thing she had probably done since he arrived.

He began to walk away but Donovan’s voice made him turn around to face her again.

“But you’re not his friend. He doesn’t _have_ friends. So who are _you_?”

“I’m…I’m nobody. I just met him.”

“Okay, bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy.” Well if that didn’t want to make John do the complete opposite.

“Why?”

“You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. He’s unstable, with his talk of magic and monsters. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”

John considered this for a second. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored.”

Someone shouts her name from inside and she shouts in return.

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.” She warns before turning away.

Sherlock Holmes _was_ very interesting, but arguably just as interesting seemed to be other people’s reactions to him.

John shook his head and slowly made his way towards the direction she had indicated. By this time it was dark and cold, and John was becoming rather annoyed at both Sherlock and himself. Sherlock for leaving him behind, and himself for expecting anything different from a man he hardly knew.

He did manage to find the main road, and lots of passing taxis but it seemed Sherlock’s skill was not one he possessed and all of them passed by him. Not unusual. However, what was unusual was the telephone boxes that _he_ passed by.

The second one that rang he was curious, by the third he was suspicious, but by the fourth John could see the pattern. What next, John thought as he opened the heavily graffitied door and stepped inside.

“Hello?”

“Those people on your left walking towards you, do you see them?” A masculine voice responded.

John frowned. What on earth?

“Who’s this? Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see them Doctor Watson?”

Clearly John had stumbled into something far more dangerous than he was expecting. Again. But he dutifully turned and looked to his left where there were, as expected, several pedestrians walking in his direction.

“Yeah I see them.”

“Watch.”

As John stood there, every single one of the people seemed to freeze for a second at slightly different intervals and do a complete about face turn and walk away.

“Now if you would look to your right.”

In the exact same fashion, it happened again. A woman with a push chair, a few business workers and even a lady with a dog all froze and walked away. Similarly, John noticed, there were no longer any cars coming from either direction.

“And finally, directly opposite you.”

It happened again, and soon John found himself very much alone. Everyone around him was gone and the sounds of traffic seemed suddenly very distant. In the middle of bloody London.

“How are you doing this?” Clearly this had to be some form of magic. There was no other explanation.

“Get in the car Doctor Watson.” A black car pulled up in front of the phone box, stopping in the middle of the road due to the sudden lack of traffic, and the driver got out and held open the back door.”

“I _would_ make some kind of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.” The line went dead and John lowered the phone.

Well, this day was certainly turning out to be a lot more exciting than his usual routine. Maybe not the type of exciting he necessarily wanted. Staring at a murder victim and being kidnapped, weren’t really at the top of his list, but he didn’t have much of a choice.

Sliding into the car revealed another person, but not the one John was expecting. It was unclear to him whether they were male or female but they were definitely the most aesthetically beautiful person he had ever seen. Their hair was a dark, rich chestnut brown that tumbled elegantly over their shoulders, two slightly pointed ears poking through. Their skin was a light tan colour and their eyes shone amber. They had strong facial features that still somehow seemed dainty and elegant, but their face shape was neither sharp, angular and masculine, nor soft, round and feminine. Clothing also a neutral dark suit.

John was quite dumbfounded to see such beauty that it took him over five minutes of the drive to realise he was staring.

He cleared his throat.

“Hello.”

The person looked up from their phone, giving John a blinding smile before turning back.

“Hi.”

Fucking hell. People weren’t supposed to look like that. Well not normal people obviously, but elves were a different story.

They sat in silence a while longer. John felt unbearably awkward.

“What’s your name then?”

“Um…Anthea.” John had been expecting something much more fantastical.

“Is that your real name?”

The person smiled, continuing to tap on their phone.

“No.”

Of course, names weren’t given freely in the fae community due to the variety of spells that could be cast using them.

John nodded to himself, turning away before remembering his fading manners and turning back.

“I’m John.” Came out automatically. So much for name spells.

“Yes. I know.” Well, John could definitely see where the ‘apathetic towards humans’ description for elves came from.

“Any point asking where I’m going?”

“None at all…” They paused, seeming to think before smiling briefly, “…John.”

They clearly couldn’t care less, but as long as that meant he wasn’t in any real danger, John didn’t particularly mind. It was more interesting to see an elf in person. Murray had been right, they definitely were the easiest to spot.

The rest of the drive passed quickly and soon they pulled up alongside a darkened warehouse. When the car stopped, the elf glanced up and waved their hand, and John’s door opened.

That was him dismissed then.

He ambled his way out the car, and then towards the lone figure lit up at the back of the warehouse.

God this was melodramatic.

As he got closer he saw that the figure was a man in a tailored suit leaning casually on an umbrella. He looked completely ordinary, well as ordinary as someone could in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, apart from his left eye which was entirely swallowed by black. In front of him stood a regular, armless chair which the man gestured to with the end of his umbrella.

“Have a seat Doctor Watson.” This was ridiculous. They’d dragged him here just for a casual chat.

John ignored him, continuing to walk forward, past the chair, and stopped in front of him.

“You know, I’ve got a phone. I mean, very clever with the magic and all that, but…you could just phone me. On my phone.”

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” Of course this had to do with Sherlock.

John raised an eyebrow. “What, discreet like emptying a whole street in the middle of central London?”

“You’d be surprised.” The man said, forcing a smile.

“The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

The stern tone did not sit right with John and he straightened.

“I don’t want to sit down.”

“Hm. You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.” The melodrama had taken away a lot of John’s initial apprehension.

The man laughed and John clenched his jaw.

“Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” His smile quickly faded however, and he looked at John sternly. “Now tell me, what exactly are you?”

“What makes you think I’m not human?”

“You mean other than the fact you are able to ask that question normally, and have yet to question any of the magic you have seen thus far?”

John tried not to grimace. He was apparently bloody awful at hiding.

The man gestured to his black eye. “I am able to see through all disguises and concealing magic…as well as various other things, but with you…” He scrunched up his nose looking annoyed, “I can only see that magic had been used to conceal your identity once before, yet you look utterly human. Now why would a human go to such lengths to conceal essentially nothing?”

John just shrugged. He wasn’t the one who cast the spell, _he_ had no idea why he still looked human. And of course he wasn’t going to let his kidnapper know what he actually was.

The man narrowed his eyes. “What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?”

Again with this? “I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him…yesterday.” John blinked a few times. Jesus that felt like a lifetime ago.

“Hm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement at the end of the week? He’s very unlikely to have been influenced by magic after all.”

“Who _are_ you?” and who did this arsehole think he was? Though clearly he knew more about Sherlock, and what he was, than John did.

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends?”

“You’ve met him. How many friends do you think he has? I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his _arch_ -enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

John snorted. “Well thank god you’re above all that.”

The man frowned and John felt his phone vibrate. He opened it to reveal a message from an unknown number.

‘Baker Street.

come at once

if convenient.

SH’

 What on Earth was it now, thought John.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I could be wrong…” John said, replacing his phone, “But I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be.”

“It _really_ couldn’t.” The man sounded like a jealous husband.

He took out a small black notebook, looking at it as he spoke, “If you _do_ move into…two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

John narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing discreet. Nothing you’d feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t your…magic eye tell you that?”

“I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unnoticed, which would not be possible were I to use any form of magic, remotely or otherwise. We have what you might call…a difficult relationship.”

Kidnapping his potential flatmate in order to bribe them to spy on him? No kidding.

John’s phone buzzed again and he removed it to find another message.

‘If inconvenient

come anyway.

SH’

The edges of John’s mouth twitched.

He looked back up at the man, “I’m not interested” he said firmly.

“You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly.”

Whatever he was trying to imply went right over John. “I’m not. I’m just not interested.”

“Hm. As someone with trust issues could it be you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

“Are we done?” John had had enough of this.

“You tell me.” John stared at him a long moment, refusing to be intimidated, and turned to walk back to the car. He felt a humming along the skin of his left hand and spun around.

“Don’t” he snapped.

The man however continued to stare at John’s hand, now in a fist at his side, a faint green glow emanating from the centre of his black eye.

“Remarkable.”

“What.” John said forcefully through gritted teeth.

“It seems the bullet that hit your shoulder was meant to end your life, but your intermittent tremor is the result of your own pent up energy rather than that from the cancelled spell on the bullet.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battle field. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

The tosser was going to get a fist to the face if he didn’t start answering his questions.

“What’s wrong with my hand?”

“It tells me you’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson, you…miss it.”

The man turned and walked away casually, turning is umbrella as he went.

“It’s time to choose a side Doctor Watson.”

He infuriated John. The last conversation had just been a way for him to have the last word.

He walked angrily back to the car, the door opening and closing behind him without having to touch it.

“Address?” Asked not-Anthea, still in the same position, staring down at their phone.

“Uh, Baker Street. Two Two One B.”

The car began to move and John’s Phone went off again.

‘Could be dangerous.

SH’

“Ah. Sorry, could we stop off somewhere first?” It was best to be prepared when it came to anything involving Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

 

After collecting a small rucksack of his things and secreting his gun away in his waistband, John soon found himself once again outside his soon-to-be flat. He knocked a few times and the door clicked open. He walking in to find neither Sherlock, nor Mrs Hudson in sight.

Was opening doors really so much of a burden when you could use magic? John shook his head and made his way back up the stairs. He opened the door to see Sherlock lying on his back on the sofa, a cushion under his head and his eyes closed. Ah. What an emergency.

His hands were clasped in the same, prayer-like position as their first meeting, but unlike then, the humming of magic was merely a background noise and not nearly as distinct. But as John watched, a patch of light, shiny, olive green began to appear on his arm.

“What are you doing?” asked John, baffled.

“Stimulant potion. Helps me think.” He gestured to a mug on the floor, the remnant of something the same vile colour as the thing on the stove on the rim. God he hoped Sherlock hadn’t _drank_ that.

“Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work. Although the potion is almost as effective. Haven’t yet got rid of the side effect of the patches yet. The patch isn’t even a consistent colour with each use.”

“Good news for breathing though.”

Sherlock let out a large breath. “Oh, breathing. Breathings boring.” Clearly.

John walked further into the room, looking curiously at Sherlock’s arm. He frowned.

“Isn’t that three patches?”

“It’s a three patch problem.”

Right. John glanced around the room in search of the reason Sherlock may have called him there for. Finding none, he cleared his throat.

“Well?”

But as seemed to be the norm when it suited him, Sherlock ignored the question.

“You asked me to come. I’m assuming it’s important.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.

“Oh yes, of course. I need you to write something down for me.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to do it. There’s always a chance my magical signature will leak a bit and be recognised.”

John blinked twice.

“Mrs Hudson’s just downstairs.”

“Yes. I tried shouting but she didn’t hear.”

“I was on the other side of London” John replied, clenching his fist.

“There was no hurry.”

John glared. Sherlock was more a consulting arse than a consulting detective.

Sherlock opened one eye, glancing at John. “Do you have a pen?”

John sighed and began looking through his rucksack and numerous coat pockets. Eventually he found a black biro which he pulled out and gestured to the man on the couch.

“Good. You won’t need that. Use the fountain pen on the desk.”

John looked towards to heavens, dropping his pen on Sherlock, much to his apparent displeasure, and walked toward a slightly higher table which must have been the desk. It was difficult to tell with all the things piled on every available surface.

He found the pen, finally, in a small pot which had had several books stacked on top.

“Right, what exactly did you want me to do?”

Sherlock waved his hand and a plain piece of paper landed on top of the desk. So he couldn’t write on it in case his magic is detected but he can magic it round the room?

“The paper. I need you to write a message.”

Instead of picking it up, John just twirled the pen in his hand. The berk could wait awhile.

“I just met a friend of yours.” John said, gauging Sherlock’s reaction.

“A _friend_?”

“An enemy. Your _arch_ -enemy according to him. Do people like you usually have arch-enemies?”

Sherlock turned his head towards John, narrowing his eyes.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.” John was kind of offended Sherlock thought he would.

“Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

John honestly felt like he’d entered a world where everything was backwards.

“Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet, and not our problem right now. On my desk, the paper.”

John sighed. “Alright, alright.”

He unfolded the paper, taking the lid of the pen and turned to Sherlock expectantly.

“These words exactly, ‘Sorry, I blacked out in Lauriston Gardens. Nine PM, twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come’.”

“You blacked out?” John asked concerned.

“What? No, no!” Sherlock swings his legs round and stands up, lunging over the various piles and things on the way to the kitchen.

John dutifully wrote out the message, but as soon as he finished the ink disappeared leaving a blank page once again.

Hearing Sherlock come back into the room, rather loudly, he called out to him.

“I wrote what you said but it faded away.” He turned towards Sherlock, only to stumble back slightly in shock as he sat, a black coat in his hand which was making a god awful rattling sound, like there were coins in the pockets but less metallic.

“Don’t worry, that’s meant to happen.”

“That’s…that’s the coat. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s coat.”

“Yes. Obviously.”

John continued to stare at Sherlock, not really understanding.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh perhaps I should mention, _I_ didn’t kill her.”

“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?”

He smirked. “Now and then.”

Sherlock continued to look fixedly at the coat, and John decided to make his way over to the arm chair where he sat down. He might as well make himself comfortable for this long conversation.

“Okay, so…how did you find it?”

“By looking.”

“Where?”

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her coat by accident if it was in a car. A Shellycoat doesn’t let it out of their sights long enough for another explanation to be plausible. Nobody could be seen with this coat without drawing attention, the rattling being quite loud and obnoxious. The coat is also usually charmed so that after possession of it for over half an hour by another person, the person or any people around become compelled to bring it back to its owner. Obviously it wouldn’t be good for a killer to return to the scene of the crime so he was motivated to get rid of it. It couldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake, with the god awful noise it makes. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere isolated enough to dispose of the coat without being noticed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip. Where I evidently removed the compelling charm.”

It all seemed so obvious when Sherlock explained it, but John knew he would never have come to the same conclusions on his own.

“But now it seems he made a second mistake that he may not even be aware of.”

“What’s that?”

“Her ring. It’s missing. It wasn’t on her body and it’s not in her coat.”

“…the ring was clearly on her finger though wasn’t it?”

“No, not that one. The second one.”

“She had a second ring?”

“Yes. It’s how she communicated with her lovers. Write something on a connected enchanted bit of paper and it appears briefly on the side of the ring, alerting them to their meeting place and time. It works similar to a phone, in the sense that it also flashes or vibrates to notify the owner. Quite common in the fae community when committing adultery, due to their general reluctance to use any forms of technology, especially those who live in aqueous environments like our victim.”

“She could have just left the ring at home?”

“No. She came into London with the intent of finding a new lover. She wouldn’t have left it behind. Why carry a freshly enchanted piece of paper and not the ring?”

“Maybe she’d already given it to someone?”

“She’d only just arrived in London, her hair and skin were still too damp to have been away from her home for very long. She wouldn’t have had the time.” Sherlock looked towards John expectantly.

John paused, soaking in all the information.

“So, um, why did I just write that message on the paper?”

“Well the question is, where is the ring now?”

“She could have lost it.”

“Yes, or…?”

“The murderer…you think the murderer has it?”

“Maybe she left it in the car or planted it on him. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her ring.”

“Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just send a message to a murderer?! What good will _that_ do?”

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a message that could only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ the ring they wouldn’t have been able to read the message. They’d need to have been in contact with her for the spell to work. No. The murderer when seeing a message like that would panic.”

Sherlock leapt up from the sofa then going over to where he’d hung up his coat.

It was quite brilliant. If a bit unwise to be chasing after a murderer.

“Have you talked to Lestrade?”

“Four people are dead. There isn’t time for that.”

“So why are you telling _me_?”

“Mrs Hudson took my skull.”

John glanced over to find that the skull was, in fact, missing.

“So I’m filling in for your skull?”

John couldn’t quite decide if this was the same as becoming a second skull, which he’d said to himself earlier was the only potential reason he wouldn’t become Sherlock’s flat mate.

“Relax. You’re doing fine.” Sherlock put on his coat and moved towards the door, but stopped just short of it.

“Well?” Sherlock questioned, glancing back at John.

“Well what?”

“Well, you _could_ just sit there and watch telly.”

“What, you want me to come with you?”

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk out loud. The skull just attracts attention so…”

John smiled. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock actually used to take a human skull out with him, but the image was quite funny.

Sherlock grinned in return. “And I said ‘dangerous’, and here you are.” He span towards the door again, long legs taking him out and down the stairs quicker than John could ever accomplish.

John sat in the chair, debating for a second on whether or not he should go. But was he really going to leave Sherlock to potentially face a murderer alone?

“Damn it!”

John leaned heavily onto his cane, using it to get to his feet and hurry back out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you manage to spot any extremely large plot holes, please let me know! I'll try to fill them...or at least work around them...  
> I promise there will be more exploring of fae and things once this case is finished :)


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